I’ve known Mary Jean and her recently deceased husband, Ed, for more than forty years. We’ve played together, prayed together, and occasionally gotten tipsy together. In that time I’ve learned to keep my ears open for the gems of wisdom which slide effortlessly into her conversation.

When I find myself struggling in a restaurant, or at home, to fulfill my mother’s edict to clean my plate because they’re starving in Armenia—which today can be translated Darfur—I hear Mary Jean, my friend of many years, quietly proclaiming, "I’m a big girl now mother, I don’t have to clean my plate." And with that reinforcement, I push away from the table and claim that I’m a big boy and, despite the plight of Darfur, I choose to avoid the multiple consequences of over eating.

I can also hear her tell me, "John, all I ever wanted for my three sons was that they should be who they are. But I didn’t know that I’d have one in AA, one in the NRA, and one who’s gay." Mary Jean’s love, however, has embraced all three sons and their families.

Or, I remember being with her at a Philadelphia Orchestra concert. While I was madly applauding in the hope that there’d be an encore, Mary Jean disdainfully whispered, "John, they’re union you know. They have to finish by ten. You didn’t pay for overtime."

Friends acknowledge that Mary Jean is unique, one-of-a-kind and impressive. As an almost six foot tall woman, she’s never stooped or slouched. She carries her height proudly and justifiably can look down her nose at most people—but she doesn’t. On the contrary, she’s warm and welcoming, compassionate and caring. Frequently, when I’m with Mary Jean, I’m not sure whether I’m with Auntie Mame, flamboyant and full of flair, or with Bette Davis, aristocratic and slightly supercilious.

She’s delighted to trace her Mapes family origin to colonial upstate New York and she has a quintessential Philadelphian’s pride in things that are small but significant. When she lived in suburban Philadelphia, Mary Jean could spend a half hour giving a visitor a tour of her garden. But the garden was only three feet by six feet and aptly named, "Pocket Handkerchief Park." And within her home every piece of furniture had a heritage and a special significance.

For many years Ed, her husband, had been in charge of music in the Philadelphia public school system and in retirement, even after a stroke impaired his left side, he continued to work part time at the Curtis Institute of Music organizing their extensive collection of Stowkowski manuscripts and memorabilia. After his stroke and in failing health Ed was finally hospitalized with pneumonia.

It was during that final hospital admission that Mary Jean heard one of the nurses refer to Ed as, "the old man in bed two." With dignity and resolve she approached the woman, placed her hand on her shoulder and said, "My dear, I know he’s an old man to you, but he’s my lover."

When Mary Jean related that incident to me, I choked while nibbling French fries. But it wasn’t the fries that got to me. It was her statement of complete love and trust and devotion. That statement has tugged at the corners of my mind ever since. I think its resonance has to do with the surprise of hearing a woman in her early eighties refer to her husband as her lover.

Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City refers to Mr. Big, or Mikhail Baryshnikov, as her lover, and younger gay men often refer to a partner as a lover, but an eighty something woman? Besides, according to the common societal stereotype, any couple in their eighties, gay or straight, should be happy to settle for companionship. Forget the lover routine. But to Mary Jean, the man in bed two with his sagging skin and limited mobility was her lover.

Whenever I think of her statement to the nurse my eyes moisten and I begin to choke up. I’m not sure whether they are tears of sadness over the loss of a dear friend or whether they are tears of envy and hope. But I do hope that one hundred years from now, or whenever I lie in a hospital bed with tubes poking out of every conceivable orifice, I’ll hear my partner say to some nurse, or doctor, or janitor, "I know he’s an old man to you, but he’s my lover."

My smile will go undetected because of all the tape and tubes and trappings that characterize terminal illness. But my liver will smile, my stomach will smile, my prostate will smile, and my heart will burst with gratitude.